


Lucky

by JustJasper



Series: Angst Bingo 2011 [6]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Disability, F/M, Gen, Paraplegia, Recovery, Self Harm, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an accident, Morgan is left with paraplegia and insistence that he's 'lucky'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> A gen fic with a touch of M/P.
> 
> Written for Angst_Bingo.

_Lucky, they had said, that he had survived while the cop in the SUV with him had died after the unsub had driven them off the road._  
  
Morgan sat in the doorway to his garage and stared at the two motorbikes there for a long time, calculating the cost of every part, every repair, every paint job, every dollar rendered a waste. They wouldn’t sell for half as much he’d spent on them, but even if they would it would be no comfort. He was never going to be able to ride them again, never be able to go for a night drive on empty roads. He’d never get to talk Reid onto the back of his bike now; a teasing threat he’d always intended to make good on, just for the thrill of terrifying his friend. He couldn’t bear to have the bikes in the house any longer to remind him of what he’d lost. The car would have to go too.  
  
 _Lucky, they had said, that the spinal cord injury he had suffered only resulted in incomplete paraplegia._  
  
He stared at his legs, at the dark marks made by tattooist’s ink, and with a bitter laugh considered that further tattoos on his legs wouldn’t hurt a bit. The four-inch gash with stitches in other calf looked ragged and sore, but he couldn’t feel it. Not even when he prodded it, hard, did he feel it. The doctors had said he’d have to wait several months to find out if he’d regain any sensation in his legs; the experts who had assessed him held out no hope for regaining function.  
  
He didn’t feel it when he pressed the razor blade to his calf and made a shallow hesitant cut about half an inch long. The second one was surer, longer, deeper, about two inches long and deep enough that blood rushed immediately to the surface. He didn’t feel it, didn’t feel any sensation of liquid or warmth as the blood ran down the curve of his leg onto the bed below. He had hoped for pain, not for the pain itself, but just out of some mad hope that the doctors were wrong. They weren’t.  
  
 _Lucky, they had said, that he still had sensation in his pelvis, with apparent full control of his bladder and bowels._  
  
The last time Morgan had peed sitting down was when he’d messed up his knee so badly in college he couldn’t support himself on it for a week. It didn’t feel normal, but it wasn’t of much concern since it was private; what had been mortifying was coming back to his home after release from hospital to find someone had fixed access bars in his bathroom. He had been so angry - even if he knew in the back of his mind it was a necessary step – that when he realised it was Garcia he hadn’t called to thank her for the effort, or for the box full of cookies she’d left for him with a heart-shaped post-it note and three X kisses.  
  
 _Lucky, they had said – with smiles and quiet tittering laughter – that he had normal sexual function._  
  
He’d slept alone since the accident. It wasn’t as if Emily hadn’t tried over the phone; at first it had been subtle, flirting in the way that usually preceded them tumbling into bed together, blurring the lines between friends and lovers for an hour, two, a night. Eventually, clearly feeling some kind of responsibility to help him but being unsure how, she had turned up on his doorstep and asked him outright.  
  
“If you let me in,” she said, trying to smile easily and failing as she had to look down to meet Morgan’s eye line, “we can have sex.”  
  
“Prentiss,” he said, using all the effort he could muster not to let it show on his face how painfully embarrassed he felt for her to see him like this, the reality of his situation rather than the direct aftermath of the accident. “Do I look like sex is the top of my list?”  
  
“Sex is always the top of your list," She tried light-hearted humour, though it fell on someone who wanted to be grateful for the effort but simply couldn’t fight through the reality of his situation to do so.  
  
“I’m busy, Prentiss,” he said flatly.  
  
“Do you just want to hang out? Have a beer, watch some TV?” she tried instead, real warmth permeating through her worry.  
  
“Busy,” he reiterated, sounding annoyed, but actually terrified at the idea of his friend witnessing his attempts to move around his own home, to get from chair to couch. “I’ll see you when I come back to work.”  
  
She smiled sadly as he closed the door, wanting him to see it, hoping that somehow it would be enough to help remind him she was there.  
  
 _Lucky, they had said, that his job meant field work was optional, that he wasn’t required to be a first responder._  
  
“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch said, nodding to each of the BAU members around the table. Derek waited a minute before rolling himself back, not wanting to roll over anyone’s toes. “Morgan,” Hotch said, looking up from files in time to catch him before he followed the others out of the conference room.  
  
“Hotch?” he manoeuvred back and around, facing his team leader.  
  
“You can’t come to Washington with us,” he said solemnly.  
  
“What?” Morgan’s shoulders squared. “I’m cleared, Hotch, I’m fine.”  
  
“I know that,” he nodded, “but the department won’t authorise you to fly until they’ve got the equipment to-” a pause in which Hotch seemed to have to fight down his annoyance at the whole situation, “get you in and out of the jet.”  
  
“Haven’t they got a ramp or something?” Morgan sighed, flexing his stiff, sore fingers. Using them to move around was more intense than he’d imagine, so much so that he had a band aid over a blister on his palm and made a mental note to buy some cycling gloves at the next opportune moment.   
  
“They have here, but we can’t guarantee every airport we land in will have the equipment to get you in and out of the jet unaided.” He gave Morgan a meaningful look, clearly needing no explanation that being carried onto the jet was not an option for Morgan.  
  
“So I’m grounded.”  
  
“The ideal solution would be to upgrade the jet itself, or get a new jet with a lift entrance, but-”  
  
“But the department is cutting back as it is.” Morgan nodded bitterly. “How long am I gonna be stuck at Quantico, Hotch? How am I meant to do my job if I’m stuck here?”  
  
“I’m putting on as much pressure as I can with the department,” Hotch said. “I’m sorry, Morgan. The adjustment period for you, and the team, is going to be longer than anticipated.”  
  
“Yeah,” Morgan murmured bitterly, adjusting the files in his lap. “Guess I’ll go find Garcia then.”  
  
Hotch looked like he wanted to say something more, but after a few seconds he just nodded. Morgan wheeled himself out of the conference room, resisting the urge to punch the door on the way out. The rest of the team in the bullpen looked mildly curious, as any would if one of them had had a private chat with their boss. Morgan didn’t meet their eyes as he let momentum carry him down the ramp into the main area of the bullpen, merely waved a dismissive hand when he heard Reid start to speak, like he was going to ask what they’d talked about, and wheeled himself in the direction of Garcia’s office. Behind him, his team mate’s eyes slid to their boss, who was watching Morgan’s retreating form.   
  
 _Lucky, they had said, that he had enough upper body strength that he would easily adapt to a wheelchair._  
  
“You need to let me help you,” Emily said, moving closer across the hardwood floor of Morgan’s living room.  
  
“I swear to god, Prentiss,” Derek snapped, clinging to the seat of the wheelchair from his place on the floor, “if you touch me I’ll-”  
  
“You’ll what, Morgan?” she bit back. “You need help.” She punctuated each word, holding his defiant stare.  
  
“I do not need help!” he yelled, trying and failing to get any leverage to put himself back in the wheelchair. “I don’t need you. I’ve never needed you, I’ve never needed anyone!”  
  
“There is nothing wrong with needing help!” Prentiss sighed exasperatedly.  
  
“I don’t need help!”  
  
“FINE!” she yelled, and dropped herself onto the couch, arms crossed over her chest and staring him down defiantly. “Do it your goddamn self, then.”  
  
With a stare to match hers, he pushed his wheelchair up against the heavy wooden coffee table and put the wheel lock on. He turned onto his hands, his hips and unresponsive legs turning with the motion. It would be easier to pull himself up onto the couch and then into the chair, but he knew he was going to need to be able to get from the floor into his chair. Slowly, with difficulty even though his arms were strong, he pulled himself up, finding it easy enough to arrange himself once the challenge of the level had been overcome.  
  
“My bad,” Emily said, unfolding her arms. “Guess you don’t need help. Sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” He said, meeting her eye. “I know people wanna help, but I don’t want them to, and I don’t need them to.”  
  
“Well,” she nodded, shifting to the edge of her seat, “can I get us beer, or you wanna do that yourself too?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her, holding it for just a few seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, and she grinned.  
  
 _Lucky, they had said, that he’d although never walk unaided again, that he’d never run, he hadn’t died._  
  
They all elected to attend the funeral of fallen police officer Richards out of respect. The service was two weeks after his death in the car Morgan was driving, postponed because his wife was stationed overseas in Iraq, due home to see her husband and two teenage children three days before the funeral ended up being organised.   
  
Derek didn’t care to remember how many times he’d heard bagpipes strain out ‘Amazing Grace’ since he was nine years old, standing graveside with his mother and sisters as his father was buried. It never got easier, and he had never wished it to, but this time was worst. Worst because while he sat up as straight as he could, he could never stand as tall and composed as the fallen cop’s widow, Sergeant, in her army uniform, just the occasional quiver of her bottom lip and thumbs gently stroking the shoulders of her two children to give away the grief she was hiding.   
  
People kept looking at him; they all knew that he’d been driving when they’d been rammed off the road. Morgan knew he couldn’t have done anything to stop what had happened, but it didn’t stop him feeling as if he was going to vomit with guilt. They shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be paying him any mind. He wanted their minds on officer Richards, his mourning wife and two children, not looking at him and trying to decide whether they personally thought he was to blame, and whether his injury was punishment enough. Morgan didn’t blame her when the officer’s widow didn’t approach him after the service.  
  
Reid kept pace beside him as they headed for the SUVs, doing a good job, Derek thought, of not looking like he was walking slowly to compensate for the combination of wheels and stony ground.  
  
“Agent Morgan.” Morgan stopped and turned, surprised to see the widow several paces away, her red hair pulled out of its neat bun and falling around her shoulders. Morgan gave Reid a nod, telling him to keep going as he turned his chair around and she approached.  
  
“Sergeant Richards,” he said, holding out a hand out of instinct. She didn’t hesitate to reach out and shake the offered hand.  
  
“You...” she peered around him, “your chair doesn’t have handles. Or arms.”  
  
“No,” he nodded. Ordering a custom chair had been the first thing he’d done when he’d got the chance; he hated the idea of having handles that people could grab when they assumed he wasn’t perfectly capable of getting around.  
  
“Mine wouldn’t, either, if I needed one,” she said.  
  
Morgan nodded amicably, conscious of how odd it felt to not be standing, to have to look upwards to meet the eye of even the shortest people he’d encountered.  
  
“I know you’re not to blame for my husband’s death,” she said. “But I’ve spent two weeks wishing he could have lived and you died instead, and seeing you today made me realise how messed up that is. I’m-”  
  
“Please don’t apologize,” Morgan said. She nodded, lips pulling tight.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault. What happened to you wasn’t any kind of punishment, because there was nothing to be punished for. I just...”  
  
Morgan didn’t say anything, let her compose herself, keeping emotions that threatened to surface at bay before she continued.  
  
“Please don’t carry it with you. I’ve seen guilt cripple people,” she cringed at her own choice of words, but Morgan didn’t react, “seen it ruin lives beyond any injury. I need to know that my husband’s death isn’t going to break you. Blind luck, fate, god, or just... circumstance... you survived. And he didn’t. So you need to keep surviving. I know that’s selfish, for me to dictate that to you. But I don’t want his death to destroy another life.”  
  
Morgan pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth, willing himself to keep from letting the ragged sound caught in his throat from emerging. He nodded surely.   
  
“It will be an honour to remember him for the rest of my life.”  
  
She smiled and closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again she leant forward, pressing her mouth with a gentle kiss to Morgan’s cheek. She pulled back and held out her hand, and they shook again. With another smile and nod, the tears shining in her eyes, she turned and walked away.  
  
There was only one SUV left where they’d parked, and Reid and Prentiss were side by side, arms leant on the bonnet with their backs to Morgan as he approached, Reid gesticulating as he talked.  
  
“...and it was called wheelchair netball at first, and in 1947 the Stoke Mandeville Wheelchair Games for the paralysed were held in England, the first official games for disabled people recorded. It wasn’t until 1956 that wheelchair basketball as we see it today was played, and-”  
  
“Reid,” Prentiss muttered, having heard Morgan’s wheels crunching pebbled. Both turned, looking as if they were ready to apologize.  
  
“Wheelchair basketball?” he raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Maybe we’ve finally found a sport where we could have an even match; you on your feet, me in the chair. You’d just have to lean over and drop the ball in the net.”  
  
Prentiss smiled in relief, heading around to the driver’s side as Morgan opened the passenger door, preparing to transfer himself into the seat and put his chair in the back with Reid.  
  
“Actually,” Reid said, climbing in behind Prentiss, “the nets in wheelchair basketball are the same height as regular basketball; ten feet.”  
  
“So I’d beat your ass even in a chair,” Morgan commented, flashing Reid a teasing grin as he folded his chair up and manoeuvred it behind his seat. “Now I gotta experience that victory.”  
  
 _Lucky, they had said._


End file.
